


What kind of man (loves like this)?

by destielpasta



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Communication, Dirty Dancing, Eliot Waugh loves Quentin so fucking much, Established Relationship, Fix-It, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, Fuck Canon, Grinding, Hand Jobs, M/M, Post Season 4, Post-Canon Fix-It, Quentin Coldwater is sexy and no I won't take criticism, Quentin and Eliot go to a club, Semi-Public Sex, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2020-03-01 02:41:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18791347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/destielpasta/pseuds/destielpasta
Summary: Quentin has been back from the dead for months, and Eliot thinks it's time they had a sexy night out in the city. Drinking, dancing, grinding, and doing inappropriate acts in alleyways ensue, all to celebrate the amazing feat of being alive. Also, feelings. A lot of feelings.





	What kind of man (loves like this)?

**Author's Note:**

> Alright so this fic is a fix-it but it's after Eliot gets Quentin back from the underworld and is a little vignette of them trying to find their footing as a couple. I wrote this mostly because I went to club and was dancing and couldn't stop thinking about Quentin and Eliot at a club and how sexy Eliot finds Quentin. Which birthed this fic. Enjoy!
> 
> Also, I have two bigger projects in the works, so if you're enjoying my fics, stay tuned!

“Honestly Q, it’s been two months of slow fucking and staring into each other’s tearful eyes, and it’s been _fantastic_.” Eliot added hastily, shutting the door to the Uber and grabbing Quentin by the hand to drag him up onto the sidewalk. “But it’s time I take you out in the town and show you off like a good boyfriend.”

Quentin smirked, laughing with his mouth closed. Eliot made a mental note: add “Q’s weird closed-mouth laugh” to his list of Things to Never Take For Granted Again.

“I already surrendered back at the cottage.” Quentin swiveled his hand against Eliot’s, threading their fingers together. “I just want to make sure you were cleared to drink after you, you know, took a massive ax to the gut.”

The typical Manhattan nightlife scene swirled around them: girls in short shorts and tall heels, boys in both ironic and unironic crop tops, people spilling out of nightclubs and into the streets. Laughing, joking, fighting, yelling, taking each other the arms and pulling. All alive. So Alive.

“I was healed enough to drag you out of the underworld by the scruff of the neck,” Eliot said, swinging their hands with all the manic energy he felt under his skin. “Didn’t hear any medical analysis then.”

Quentin just gave him that look— the one that said _hey ho you’re not supposed to joke about that_ but what was Eliot supposed to do? Process his feelings? Yeah right. The hollow emptiness of the underworld still haunted him. He had been living and breathing, the Orpheus to Quentin’s Eurydice, stumbling around in the dark looking for one particular light brown head with a floppy set of bangs. It hadn’t helped that Quentin had fucking _changed his hair_ when Eliot had been so inconveniently possessed and then had the audacity to die before Eliot could even comment on it.

They waited in a fidgety line for a few minutes, behind a group of chatty girls in bachelorette party gear and in front of a group of gay boys in tight plaid shirts. Eliot wound a hand around Quentin’s waist, pulling him close, slipping it under the hem of his shirt to press his finger pads to his flesh.

So maybe he felt a little possessive of Quentin’s living flesh and blood these days? That wasn’t weird.

Ever since they had woken up on the floor of Marina’s apartment, Eliot jerking awake from astral projection and Quentin breathing his first creaking, gasping breath of life into the golem body they had created for him, Eliot hadn’t left his side. While they got water and food into his new body and hugged him and told him they loved him, Eliot had been there. He’d held his hand, straightened his clothes, smoothed his hair back when it fell in his face. He helped him up when he stumbled, still adjusting to his new arms and legs like a baby out of the womb. The golem looked like the Quentin he had known when they lived their life at the mosaic, longer hair and less furrow to his brow, but the haunted look was still behind his eyes even when his consciousness returned.

He _had_ let go of him once, when Quentin had given him a look soft enough to melt steel and said:

“I have to be fair to Alice, I have to tell her what happened in the underworld.”

Eliot agreed, but he still hoped that he hadn’t told Alice _everything_ that happened in the underworld, because as it turns out otherworldly, ethereal sex is something else. She had a good attitude about it, all things considered, especially after her and Eliot had eliminated the secrets between them in the days after Quentin’s death.

The more people loving Quentin, the better. The lines had been redrawn.

The bouncer finally let them through on the tail of the bachelorette party, and Eliot led Quentin down a dark, winding staircase, into the flashing lights of the club. The music was fast but raw, and bodies teemed on the crowded dance floor. Eliot shouldered his way through to the bar, using his height as an advantage.

“What do you want to drink?” He all but shouted into Quentin’s ear over the roar of the music.

“Anything,” Quentin said, pressing against his side. “Something quick.”

Eliot ordered them some shots and clinked their glasses together before they tossed them back. Quentin set his glass on the bar as Eliot ordered them drinks to nurse, his fingers tracing up Eliot’s arm and under the sleeve of his shirt.

When Eliot turned back, Quentin’s eyes were fire.

He just _loved_ it that he got to have all of these different Quentins now. In the first days of living in his new body, he had been timid, searching–  touching Eliot slowly and reverently as if their lovemaking belonged in a museum. Then they had sunk into the throes of slow, aching passion, fucking until they couldn’t anymore and then kissing until the other was ready to go again and then fucking _again_ , without thought for time or place or appropriate behavior for two grown men in their late twenties. This was when Quentin started using his words, speaking _lovely things_ into the space between Eliot’s neck and shoulder.

I won’t leave you ever again.  
I can’t get close enough to you.  
I love—  
_I love—  
_I love you, Eliot.

Eliot’s heart swelled at the memory, but the look in Quentin’s eyes was entirely different now.

This Quentin ordered another shot for them both, tossing it back and then leaning forward to kiss Eliot, holding his face between his hands and licking into his mouth. Eliot opened to him easily— whatever Quentin wanted, Quentin got— all of him. Anything.

This was a new Quentin, one he hadn’t seen yet since they had flipped their tragedy on its ass,  and Eliot’s heart beat in delight. He remembered this Quentin– the one who had held Alice’s hand tight in front of everyone and had just bursted to say _This is my girlfriend, Alice Quinn, we’re dating now, just so you know._  Eliot had found it endearing then when he wasn’t on the receiving end of it–  but now?

When he pulled back, he saw the fire in his eyes, the desire. Quentin _wanted_ him. And he wanted the world to know just how much.

How nice that was for Eliot.

He matched Quentin’s heated gaze and pulled him out onto the dance floor. Despite the air conditioning blowing from huge vents above them, the floor was hot and close from the dancing mass of bodies around them.

He smiled, smoothing Quentin’s hair away from his face and leaning in for another quick kiss.

“Are you alright?” He asked.

Check in, make sure, make Q happy.

“I’m not much of a dancer,” Quentin said, swaying.  

“Not to worry, darling.”  Eliot grabbed Quentin’s shirt and pulled him close. “You’re too sexy already for that to matter.”

The fire was back, and Eliot could already feel the all too familiar feeling of the alcohol warming him, loosening his limbs. They swayed in time with the bodies around them, just another couple on the dance floor.

He wanted to be drunk with him. To let the memories of the last year fade away into oblivion. The physical kids cottage held too many memories, too much baggage to really feel like home these days. Marina’s old apartment left Eliot feeling cold, like he could still feel the monster breathing in his body, feeding it poison and drugs and laying bare every bodily weakness Eliot ever had.

He wanted to forget that he had ever attended Quentin’s funeral. That there had been a chance that he would never see him again.

Eliot ran his hands down Quentin’s arms and circled his ribcage, winding around to press his hands into the small of his back. Quentin responded readily, moving further into Eliot’s space and twining his arms around his neck.

The music changed. Now it was something with a deep, trance-like beat— deep enough to feel like it was pulling the blood through Eliot’s body. He got his hands on Quentin’s ass, taking it by the handful and swaying them in time. The lights flashed. Quentin’s hands wandered— down his neck, snagging on the collar of Eliot’s shirt, dragging it away enough for Q to meet bare skin.

Eliot was warm.

Quentin was alive.

Quentin leaned in, pulling Eliot’s collar down in earnest and licking a long stripe over his neck, as if just to enjoy the taste.

Eliot’s head spun. They weren’t the only couple getting handsy on the dance floor, but he mused that they were the only pair this in love, the only pair that wanted the other to the point of dizziness and distraction and something else and _oh–_

Eliot spun him around in his arms, back to front, pressing a hand to Quentin’s belly to feel the warm length of his body against his own. Quentin’s head dropped back onto Eliot’s shoulder, and Eliot bent down to taste the salt of his sweat gathered there. Kiss, lick, suck— he felt the shuddering of his breath beneath his hand as Quentin gasped.

He bit down. He _felt_ Quentin’s moan, a vibration against his hand.  

“Maybe we should have stayed home,” Eliot said against his hot skin.

“Why?” Quentin breathed, mouth hanging open, wanting, taking.

Eliot’s hands slid lower, cupping just so where Quentin’s jeans had begun to grow tight.

“So I could fuck you,” he said, lips grazing his ear.

Quentin’s breath hitched. “Later? Promise?” He asked.

Eliot smiled. bending forward to catch his mouth. It was a claiming kiss— _mine._ Quentin tasted like the whiskey coating Eliot’s own mouth.

They swayed like that for a while, mouths parting when they finally had to breathe. Quentin panted against his mouth, winding an arm around the back of Eliot’s head and returning to the beat of the dance.

 _Can’t dance my ass_ , Eliot thought as Quentin pressed back against the hardness growing in Eliot’s pants, grinding in time with the new beat that thumped from the speakers. He had promised Quentin a fun night out among strangers who didn’t have the same kind of problems they did so hence they could forget about their problems, which didn’t include coming in his pants after twenty minutes on the dance floor because Quentin Coldwater was back from the dead and being _so damn sexy about it._  

“I promise,” Eliot said, trailing his lips over his neck.

Quentin turned around in his arms, forsaking all pretense of dancing and kissing him again. Eliot opened his mouth, letting Quentin lick into him. Quentin loved being touched, and that was its own reward, but something happened when you touched Quentin–  he touched you back with tenfold enthusiasm.

They pulled apart, breathless.

“Let’s go somewhere,” Quentin breathed.

Eliot was already on it, scanning the dance floor for exits. He pulled him through the crowd towards a light up exit sign and Eliot barely had time to check and see if there was an “alarm will sound” sign on the door before he pushed it open and they were out in the cooling summer night air.

Quentin backed him up against the brick wall and kissed him senseless, all greedy hands pulling Eliot down, down into his space. Eliot gave, opening his mouth and letting Quentin have him. Quentin’s hands were firm, but he stroked his face with his thumb, the tenderness inexplicably shooting right down to Eliot’s dick. He groaned, and slipped his hands back under Quentin’s shirt to feel his ribcage expand with air.

Alive. So alive.

Quentin pulled back, and Eliot chased his mouth on instinct, _no fair, that was mine_. Quentin caught his lip between his teeth, nipping lightly before pressing another kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“I want to make you feel good,” Quentin said, running his hands down Eliot’s torso.

“Not if I get to you first.” Eliot cupped a hand over the front of Quentin’s jeans again.

Quentin moaned against his cheek, and Eliot aimed to continue, unbuttoning the top button of his jeans.

“No.” Quentin’s tone settled into something desperate, breathy and needy. “Let me touch you first, come on–   _let_ me, El.”

Eliot closed his eyes because _fuck_ he was weak for every type of Quentin but _this_ Quentin? Quentin _Let me touch your dick or I swear I’ll do something stupid_ Coldwater that was so desperate, gagging, wanting–

How could Eliot resist?”

“Of course you can, baby,” he gasped.

Quentin was already working on the fly of his pants and Eliot used his last shred of sanity to glance down the alley to see if anyone was watching them. A conveniently placed sign blocked them, and Eliot was relieved because this Quentin was only for him, _his_.

Eliot’s head hit the wall when Quentin finally got his hand around his cock, stroking slowly and carefully like they had all the time in the world.

“Q,” he breathed.

Quentin shuffled closer, stretching up to his tiptoes to kiss Eliot’s neck. His hand sped up, twisting at the head and thumbing at the slit until Eliot’s knees felt weak. Quentin bit down lightly, drawing a moan from him.

“Does it feel good?” Quentin asked, pulling back to look at him. He used his other hand to smooth Eliot’s hair away from where it had fallen in front of his face. Tenderness, again. “Do you like it?”

“You always feel good,” Eliot said, dipping forward to try and kiss him. Quentin turned at the last moment and Eliot moaned into Quentin’s hair instead as his hand sped up. Thwarted, he slipped a hand down Quentin’s pants, trying to pull him closer, get him to grind against his thigh.

Quentin’s hand stilled.

“What’s wrong?” Eliot asked, nervous suddenly. He searched Quentin’s face for panic or discomfort or anything–  Had this been too much? Had he been wrong to let Quentin do this? Or to even bring him out at all?

“Nothing. I just–” Quentin gripped his hip, blowing out an exhale. “Don’t worry about me. Let me take care of you now.”

Eliot squeezed his eyes shut because maybe that was a little too real for a quickie outside of a club in eleven PM on a Friday night, but when had Quentin ever had a sense for these things? This was another Quentin, the most intense one that wore his heart on his sleeve and wouldn’t let Eliot run away from his feelings anymore. The same Quentin that had called his name out among the silence of the dead, running to him until even weird underworld physics couldn’t keep them apart and kissing Eliot with all the heat from the sun. He had lit up the darkness. He had brought himself back to life, Eliot was just the messenger.

Dead or alive. Quentin would make him understand.

He felt a touch to his chin: Quentin’s hand, trying to get him to look at him. Eliot opened his eyes, swallowing past the lump in his throat.

“Q…” he whispered.

And in that moment, Eliot truly realized.

Quentin was–  

“I’m here, El.”

He–

“I’m not going anywhere.”

His eyes were shining, so bright, even in the darkness. And was irrevocably, undeniably, irreversibly–  

Quentin shook his head, smiling.

“I’m going to give you everything you’ve ever wanted.”

_Alive._

Eliot practically sobbed when Quentin started moving his hand again, curling over him like a shield, like a goddamn koala bear on a tree because Quentin was here and alive and he was touching Eliot like it was the only thing in the world worth doing at that moment. He wanted Eliot just as much as Eliot wanted him.

Without a lick of space between them, Eliot came, sobbing and gasping as Quentin worked him through it, one hand on his cock and the other cradling his head against his shoulder.

His head spun as Quentin pushed against him, not giving him a moment before pinning him to the wall and grinding his hips against Eliot’s thigh, and yes, _oh yes_ , now he got to have this. Quentin moaned, choked off and almost pained, as he rode Eliot’s leg, chasing the pleasure he had so beautifully given Eliot and Eliot held on to him, encouraging him with a firm hand at the small of his back.

“Come on, Q, I wanna–  I wanna kiss you while you come–”

And that seemed to do it, because Quentin’s breath stuttered once as he lifted his face, and then again when Eliot took it between both of his hands and kissed him on his slack, open mouth, swallowing the moans as Quentin came between them.

He kissed him while he came down, Quentin’s hands coming up to circle his wrists, anchoring him there.

He broken away to breathe, leaning his full weight against the wall and pulling Quentin close to press a kiss to his forehead. He tasted like sweat and sex and Eliot loved him, _really_ loved him.

They were a mess, but Eliot just circled his arms around Quentin and pulled him close. As if by force of habit they had formed over an entire lifetime, Quentin rested his head against Eliot’s chest.

“That was–”

Eliot laughed softly. “New.”

Quentin sighed, a deep contented sound. “I loved it. I love you.”

Eliot ran his fingers through his hair. “Me too. Both things.”

He felt Quentin smile.

They were cold and needed to clean up but Eliot held on for just a moment longer. Every moment he got to hold him was a moment well-used. He heard the click of Quentin’s throat as he swallowed, his heartbeat slowing to a normal rhythm against his own.

“I meant it, El,” he said quietly, his voice just as wrecked as Eliot’s. “It wasn’t just a–  sex thing. I’m here for you, just as much as you’re here for me.”

Eliot nodded, rubbing circles in Quentin’s back. “I know. I know and that–  I’ve never had that, Q.”

Quentin straightened, reaching up again to plant a kiss to Eliot’s cheek. When he pulled back, he smiled.  

“You do now.”

Eliot returned the smile, leaning their foreheads together. After a moment, Quentin cleaned them up with a wave of his hand, a familiar spell, and they laughed and looked around self-consciously, as if just realizing they were a few feet shy of a busy street in the middle of the biggest city on Earth.

“Come on,” Quentin said, once they were halfway decent again. “I want to dance again.”

“What have I created?” Eliot shook his head, grinning. “I never knew this was inside of you.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know.” Quentin took his hand, pulling him towards the door. “I didn’t let you see _all_ my moves.”

Eliot allowed himself to be led, chasing after Quentin’s smile.

“I can’t wait.”

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed! I am queliotpasta on tumblr if you would like to come scream at me about The Magicians. Please leave a comment if you can!


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